


If somebody hurts you, I wanna fight

by Sunnyrea



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Timelines, Angst, Bechdel Test Pass, F/F, Gen, M/M, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4995442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Team Machine deals with a crippling loss which will lead them to rash actions against their enemy Samaritan. Can they survive the fight and the loss it brings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What is lost

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to do in this story the one thing I have always said I could not bear to happen in the show. I am sorry now.
> 
> The title is from [Tom Odell "Another Love"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MwpMEbgC7DA)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Harold thinks it is not okay._

The car pulls to a stop overlooking a large gray warehouse. A nondescript chain link fence surrounds the whole area and low lights barely illuminate the grounds within. The car on the hill is silent except for the rapid sound of typing for several long minutes until it suddenly stops.

“All right,” Harold says as he looks up from his laptop. “It's ready.”

John raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

Harold gives him a look. “It is a Samaritan server station, Mr. Reese. If the internal video feed had been easy to hack then I would be worried.”

“Relax, John,” Root says as she opens the rear car door, John following from the driver seat. “Harold is the best.”

“As complimentary as your high esteem in me is, Ms. Groves, we still must proceed with caution.” Harold puts his laptop into the back seat then climbs out of the car as well. “There are no doubt human Samaritan agents inside.”

“Good thing I’m here,” John says and cocks his gun.

Harold purses his lips. “I would prefer stealth win out.”

Root snorts and begins picking her way down the grassy hill toward the dimly lit warehouse. John and Harold follow, John keeping an arm out to steady Harold as they go. Once the trio hits level ground they hurry across the open space until they reach the fence surrounding the station. Root works at the key pad quickly until it buzzes and they slip through.

“Which way?” John asks.

“We have no concrete internal blue prints but judging by the power distribution –”

“To the right,” Root cuts Harold off.

Harold nods at her. They turn and walk along the edge of the building, only the exterior wall for cover until they reach a door.

“There is likely a guard,” Harold says, touching John’s arm once.

“Or several,” Root quips.

“Get behind me.” John pushes Harold’s side, Root scooting in behind Harold. John twists a silencer on the end of his gun, glances back at the other two then yanks the door handle. He slides into the door way, fires two shots then looks back at Harold and Root. “Come on.”

Harold looks at his watch – only a limited amount of time before his surveillance hack is noticed. “Five minutes.”

The three of them walk into the building, two guards on the floor with leg wounds.

Root crosses in front of John and hurries down the hall, a laptop in one hand and gun in the other. “I will set up the disabling virus. You get your program in there Harold.” She grins. “Let’s transfer some ownership!”

John looks down at Harold after Root disappears around the corner. “So?”

Harold looks at his phone, taps the screen twice – references the Machine had before its shut down. “If this server housing is at all similar to the one Ms. Groves accessed two years ago then we should head this way.” He looks up at John. “They have at least one manual access terminal per server location.”

“Lead on, Harold.”

They walk swiftly down a white corridor, past a turn toward cargo access, two more turns and then out of the hallway into a huge open room filled with hundreds of tall servers in rows. The sight carries quite a weight of oppression. Harold turns his head left and sees a smaller server with external access ports and a closed laptop on a tall desk. Harold walks over and opens the laptop. It powers up instantly. Harold pulls the external hard drive from his pocket and plugs it into the computer USB port as well as directly into the server the laptop is connected to.

John stands directly behind Harold, shielding him from anyone that might attempt to surprise them. “You good, Harold?”

Harold hacks quickly from what he knows – little though it is – of Samaritan security. His program should help somewhat there. “I will be if –”

“The virus is uploaded,” Root says over the coms, answering Harold’s unfinished question. “The servers should be disrupted for at least five minutes to give you access.”

“How long will yours take, Finch?” John asks.

Harold shakes his head as he types, code sliding by quickly as the reconfiguring program from the drive takes over the computer functions. “I have to ensure the algorithm can take over all the servers, erase the Samaritan control, so we can remotely access the server power and give the Machine its access to at least some of the functional space it needs.” 

“Obviously,” John says deadpan.

Harold smiles a little and keeps typing. “We cannot let any trace of Samaritan's code remain on these servers if we want to change the data housing over to the Machine.”

John leans over Harold's shoulder for a moment, glances at the other end of the server space then turns back around to keep his eyes on the hallway access.

“I just need to adjust the…”

“We haven’t seen anyone else here, Finch,” John suddenly says.

“What?” Harold replies, distracted as he adds a qualifying line of code to the program.

“There should be more than two guards here and we haven’t seen anyone else.”

Harold turns away from the computer to look at John behind him. “What are you saying, Mr. Reese?”

John glances at Harold and shakes his head. “It’s just…”

Then a gunshot hits the server bank between John and Harold. The two of them duck instinctively, John recovering a second later to shoot back at the pair of guards coming down the hall where Harold and John entered. 

“Go Finch!” John shouts as he hits one guard in the knee.

Harold crouches, keeps typing on the laptop. The program needs more time and if they cannot take control of the servers now, before Samaritan eradicates the virus from its system, then the whole mission is lost.

John shoves the now broken server, fortunately not the one Harold is connected to, in front of them for some modicum of cover.

“Hurry, Harold!” John shouts, shooting three more times.

“I am doing the best I can, Mr. Reese. It is not a system which will cave easily under such hacking, that is why it was necessary to be on site.”

John grunts as a bullet grazes him, knocking into Harold once then standing straight again, fires two more shots then reloads. “Necessary to be in this much danger?”

Harold shakes his head and adjusts the program again, watches the code. “We need this, John.”

“Harold, if we can’t, we can find another –” Another bullet abruptly smashes into their server cover so sparks fly.

“We must have the Machine back, John, it is our best hope.”

The sound of feet and unfamiliar shouts come from down the hall, more guards approaching to attack.

“Root!” John shouts into the com. “We may need your help.”

“On my way,” they hear in their ears. “It looks like the internal video feed is –”

“I know, I know!” Harold gasps. “The program is hanging, something is –”

Then something happens, something sharp and sudden and not truly painful until Harold blinks twice, until he actually sees the guard holding the gun from the opposite side of the guards John engages, from around the bend in the server warehouse – from their blind spot.

“John…” Harold says, almost imperceptible.

Then he falls.

Harold feels the wool of John’s coat as John turns, he tries to grab on to John’s arm as he falls but he hits the ground, John’s voice ringing in his ears with his name. Then his chest is on fire, stabbing, splintering. He tastes blood in the back of his throat.

“Joh…. John…”

“Finch!” John shouts, shoots in both directions, half crouched over Harold now to protect him.

Harold gasps and tries to breathe normally, tries to breathe past the pain. “I’m…” He gasps. “I can’t…”

“Root, where are you?” John shouts, shoots three more times then spins around over Harold. “Harold, look at me, Harold.” He smacks Harold lightly in the face so Harold blinks and John’s face becomes clear. “Come on.”

“John…” Harold says and tries to reach up for him but Harold’s arms are so heavy.

“It’s going to be okay, Harold, we will get you out of here.” John puts both hands over Harold’s chest and presses down making Harold gasp sharply at the pain. “Root, Harold is hit.”

“What?” Harold hears her voice – distant and like she is across an ocean. 

“We have to get out, now. He won’t…” John cuts himself off and presses down again.

Harold breathes in, blinks over and over so he does not pass out but the pain is so intense. It is like the ferry, like the explosion, like the worst day of his life all over again. He breathes in and out, tries to focus on John’s panicked face. He knows he needs to stay conscious but he can barely see straight. 

He moans into a gasp. “John… I don’t think I…”

“Stay with me, Harold,” John says gripping the side of Harold’s face with one hand while keeping the other in place. “Remember how many times I’ve been shot?”

“Yes,” Harold says weakly.

John smiles – an attempt at reassurance which John often lacks. “This is only your second. You can make it.”

Harold cannot always tell when John is lying but this time the fear in John’s voice is obvious. “The program…” Harold gasps again, coughs and tastes blood in his mouth, on his tongue. “We have to finish the program, we have to...”

“It’s too late, Finch.”

“Harold!” Root’s voice suddenly comes from somewhere behind John where Harold cannot see. "Oh god."

“Help me!” John says.

Suddenly four hands are pulling Harold up from the ground. Harold groans and wants to scream, feels like his legs are barely there, like they are back in a wheel chair, useless and attached to a broken back.

“Here, here!” Root says.

Harold feels them hauling his arms over their shoulders and then it is like they are running. It feels too fast, like he can barely keep up, like Harold will fall and die here with the enemy.

“What happened?” Root asks. “What happened!”

“Talk later, now we –”

“Samaritan defeated the virus quicker than I thought it would but did the program get through to…”

“No.”

Root’s hand clenches so hard Harold can feel it. “Then this was a failure…” She breathes out in a ragged way. “We have to –”

“We can’t stay; we just need to get out now!”

“I don’t think…” Harold starts but his brain cannot keep up, cannot remember what he cannot do.

“We are almost there, Finch,” John says, “hold on.”

“It’s okay, Harry,” Root says close to his ear. 

Harold thinks it is not okay.

“It’s cold,” He says and starts to shake. “I’m cold.

Then a door clangs and the feeling of outdoors hits Harold. He hears gravel and wind and more silence than his New York City living is used to. His feet move but do not move at the same time. He knows they are climbing the hill, the angle less than ninety degrees but more than flat. Harold wonders if the stars can be seen here further away from the city.

“Harold!” John snaps and Harold opens his eyes.

The pain hits Harold again as they climb into the car – sharp and hot and cold and like razor blades, like shrapnel, like a ferry bomb in his back. Harold groans and flings out at arm to grab at anything, fists his hands and swallows blood as they lay him flat on the back seat. The car door slams shut and John is right next to him, tearing buttons off of his vest and shirt beneath. 

“Go, Root, go!” John shouts as the car starts and squeals on the pavement.

“It will still take us at least fifteen –”

“Break the speed limit, I do not care, Root, I am not going to let this happen!”

“John…” 

John holds gauze which must be from the meager med kit in their car against the wound in Harold’s chest – his finger tips hot against Harold's skin – keeps pressure even though Harold can feel blood on his own hands, still in his throat and on his teeth. It is as if the blood is slowly pushing up through his mouth instead of the hole in his chest. Everything is hurting less then more, back and forth in odd waves Harold cannot predict or quantify and somewhere in the back of his mind Harold thinks that is probably not a good sign.

“This warehouse is isolated, John, and we don’t exactly have a plane!” Root snaps then she clears her throat. “We… we might not…”

“Just drive!”

“John…”

John finally looks down at Harold, both hands still on Harold’s chest. “Harold?”

“I… I’m cold.”

“It’s the shock, Finch. Just stay awake. We are getting you help.”

Harold shakes his head. “I don’t think…”

“Well this time you don’t get to think, Harold,” John cuts him off. “Let us help you.”

“I don’t think you can,” Harold says quietly. Harold tries to breathe but it is hurting more and more each time. He fists his hand around John’s arm, breathes shallow and his head hurts. “It’s too…”

“Don’t say that, Harold.”

Harold sees the gray in John’s hair from where he lies half across John’s lap, just at John’s temples, though there is more now than there used to be when Harold met him. Harold should have told him it was fetching, don’t they call that ‘salt and pepper.’ Not to mention it has always been kind of funny how much gray John has compared to Harold when Harold has so many years on him. Harold smiles and tries to reach up and touch John’s hair, that short military cut that always looks perfect on him.

“Finch, look at me.”

“I am.”

“No, Finch, look at me.”

Harold blinks and gasps and the sound is watery and weak. John is gripping his hand, Harold not even holding it up himself any longer.

“You have to… the Machine, you have to…”

“Don’t worry about that now, Finch, we just need to get you –”

“No,” Harold tries to insist, tries to find the energy to convey the importance. “She’s my… she’s my creatio… my daughter, you have to…”

Root makes a sound like a sob from far away across New York City on the other side of memory.

John shakes his head. “Right now I’m worried about you, Finch, worried about you staying conscious. Please, don't give up, Harold.”

Harold laughs, low and quiet and weak and he sees John staring right back at him, that expression Harold cannot forget, that face that wants to always believe in him. “Is… is this how… how you feel?”

Harold doesn’t say, ‘when you’re dying.’

“Is this how you always feel?” John asks back quietly.

And John does not have to say, ‘when you’re not.’

Harold realizes as he breathes into the back of his throat that he cannot feel the pain any longer. He smiles with his eyes – back four years to a man who was as lost as he was and just as lonely, to a new hope after his life blew up and his heart cried alone, to lives saved back and forth until they were more in each other’s debt and more important than anything else – he smiles up at John.

“Thank you.”

“Finc… Harold, no, Harold, stay with me. Harold! Open your eyes… Open your eyes! Harold, please, Harold!”

And then Harold hears nothing at all.


	2. Cry Havoc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We’re getting Shaw back.”_

John sits beside the rarely used bed in their safe house. (John looked up the resident history of the apartment once and found it used to belong to Harold’s friend Nathan Ingram and somehow that just makes the situation all the worse). Harold lies on the bed, cold and unmoving and really not there at all. John cleaned all the blood from Harold’s face, from his hands. He tried to clean off Harold’s suit and shirt – he wishes he had spare buttons to sew on because of all the ones he ripped off in the car – but the blood stains do not come out. He polished Harold’s glasses but just ended up leaving them on the side table instead of putting them back on Harold’s face. John does not want any barriers, nothing between him and the truth of Harold dead in front of him.

Now John sits still and stares, stares at Harold’s blank, stiff face, his hands on the bed, at the blood stains across his chest. John thinks down a winding train of thought that he should contact Grace in Italy to let her know that her fiancée has died again. Should he call? Send a letter? But if Harold has already died for her once then he cannot die again. Instead the baton has passed to John and now he is next of kin to be informed of the loss. 

John swallows hard and abruptly stands up. John touches Harold’s tie, adjusts it a centimeter to the left. He smooths out a wrinkle in the line of Harold’s suit jacket.

“Better,” John mutters.

He glances at Harold’s shoes. There are scuffs on the toes of both. John glances around quickly as if some shoe polish could be within sight. There is not. John walks around to the other side of the bed, pulls at the edge of Harold’s pants. It does not really change anything; the fabric is as straight as it will get. There is one spot of blood on the fabric of Harold’s upper thigh. John touches the spot then pulls his hand away again quickly. It is dry now.

“John.”

John does not look up at Root’s voice from the doorway.

His jaw clenches at he stares at Harold’s face. He has always disliked the sentiment that death can look like a person may be merely sleeping. Sleep is not this still, this silent; sleep is not final.

“John.”

“Root.” John looks up at her.

Her eyes tick to Harold once and her mouth pinches tight. Then she looks at John again. “Come on.”

John glances down at Harold – hands flat on the bed, eyes closed – and wants to shoot Root right between the eyes because she is the only other living person here. Then he turns and walks away from the bed, following Root back out into the open space of the apartment. She walks briskly over to the couch and sits down, a laptop open on the table in front of her.

“I did an analysis with Harold’s external tracking program of the server site. It looks like the program actually half worked. Some of the servers went off line so they –”

“Who cares about that now?” John says as he looms over her. “What’s the point?”

“We have to know for certain if the plan could still…”

“Could still what, Root? It failed. We failed. We can’t go back there and Harold sure as hell can’t make it work now.”

“But it can’t be a failure!” Root snaps. “We can’t have gone there and accomplished nothing! Not when the cost was…” She shuts her mouth and fists her hands. Then she speaks quietly, “don’t you want to get back at them for what they took?”

The space hangs silent between them for a moment before John speaks, “More than anything.” 

John turns away before Root says anything else. He picks up his duffel bag from where it sits against the back of the couch. He walks over to the long table and puts the bag on top. He unzips the bag and systematically takes out every weapon inside – Glock G22, SIG-Sauer P226R, SIG SPC 2009. He lines them up on the table parallel with each other. He counts bullets for each weapon, counts chest wounds and head shots.

“I told him I couldn't lose him.”

John’s hands stop moving and he looks up at Root on the couch. “What?”

“After Sameen I couldn't...” She turns at looks back at John. “I told him I couldn't lose him too.”

John wants to say 'he wasn't yours to lose,' wants to say 'what gives you the right to grieve when I was here first,' wants to say 'neither of us could bear losing him.' Instead he stares down at the guns lined up on the table now – the guns Harold always disliked, the guns Harold would never use.

“You were supposed to protect him,” Root says low and harsh.

John’s head jerks up again. “And where were you?” John lashes back but his voice is hollow because she is right.

Root stares at him, does not apologize. She is angry, as angry as he is. There is no room for sorrow right now, no room for blame. There is only room for hate.

“We’re getting Shaw back.”

Root blinks once and opens her mouth two seconds before she finally manages to speak. “What?”

“We’re not losing anyone else. We know Shaw is alive. They have her and they are not keeping her one more day.” He pulls a shot gun out of his bag and places it heavily on the table. “And I could do with shooting a few Samaritan agents right now.”

“More than a few,” Root replies.

“We are getting Shaw back,” John repeats.

 

[John delivers Harold to a mortician he trusts – John used her once or twice back in his days with the CIA and Kara Stanton at his side. Madeline was John’s contact so her CIA ties are severed and her mortuary is not camera enabled. Plus she owes John at least one favor he is glad to collect.

He gives her a pale gray pinstripe suit, a white shirt with a pink stripe pattern and a burgundy paisley tie. 

“Not black,” John says.

Madeline shakes her head. “Of course not.”

“He hadn’t been wearing as much color lately,” John says as he hands her the garment bag. “Money constraints but… he’d always had some flash.” John smiles for a second before stopping again.

Madeline nods – her expression neutral in a way John knows is practiced. “I’ll take care of him.”

He wants to slam her into the wall by her throat, scream that it’s not about ‘taking care’ of Harold, it’s because John can’t, because he didn’t. Instead John nods and walks away. 

John keeps Harold’s glasses in his inner jacket pocket.]

 

It only takes John and Root three days to find Shaw.

“When she left the Samaritan hospital the Machine tracked the car she was in.” Root shuts her laptop. “Harold logged some of the data so we –”

“Can get moving.” John cocks his Beretta.

In Milburn, New Jersey – only a twenty minute train ride from Penn Station – John and Root stalk through the small, high income town full of boutique shops until they find a very unusual Wi-Fi black spot. A little hacking from Root and they discover a supposedly closed Target with papered up windows.

“Nothing on the main floor,” Root says over their com line. “Just the usual half demolished displays and post apocalypse mess aesthetic.”

“The back is bare.” John walks through the empty storage areas no boxes, no shelving, not even a scrap of trash. “Something either came through here or they are prepping for something.”

Root appears a minute later, black ski mask over her face matching John’s. “New server location?”

John nods. “Or former?”

Root shakes her head. “They would have needed the whole space to house the amount of servers Samaritan needs per location. They are clearing it to put servers in. They’re just not done yet.”

“So they are still here,” John finishes her thought.

Downstairs in the small satellite office, John shoots the first two Samaritan guards – head shot and stomach wound – while Root takes the next three, all gun shots and no discussion. Root immediately makes for a computer while John keeps their lone survivor pinned to the floor.

“I won’t talk,” she says, spitting out blood.

John shoots her in the upper thigh so she screams. “Normally I’d tell you a story about my time in the CIA to frighten you as a first step toward talking but I don’t want to take the time today. Where is Sameen Shaw?”

“I said I won’t –”

John shoots her in the knee cap making her yelp high. “I’d also rather just hurt you right now. Where is Sameen Shaw?”

The woman clenches her eyes shut and breathes hard and fast. “No…”

John grabs one of her wrists and bends it backward until it cracks. She screams again and tries to wrench herself away from him but his full weight keeps her pinned. “Wrong answer.”

“John,” Root says suddenly from across the room. “They transferred her just two days ago.” He glances over at Root just as she looks at him. “Back to New York.”

John looks down at the woman, makes no witty remark or sarcastic thanks. He shoots her in the face then stands up and walks out with Root.

They burn the building down behind them.

In Saratoga Springs, New York, John and Root break into a glass and aluminum manufacturing plant. They do not shoot for knee caps when the black suits appear.

Among all the perfectly made Pepsi cans, they find a back room similar to their last Northern New York road trip. There is no person handcuffed to a bed this time but there are a number of familiar glass boxes.

“How many of these hidden labs are there?” John asks.

Root smashes the glass of one box and pulls out the nuroimplant inside. “Better question would be how many of these implants are there?”

“How many are already in use?” John questions quietly.

“And in whom?” Root says quietly, her meaning plain.

Root puts the one implant she picked up into her jacket pocket. Then she steps back and suddenly kicks the table over so the glass smashes onto the floor. She stomps on one implant then shoots another. John watches her for a moment, boots smashing and wasting ammunition. Then John crosses the room and accesses the computer. He may not be Harold or Root but he has CIA training in hacking systems to make him capable enough.

“She was definitely here,” John says as he keys through the touch screen – patient list and testing results.

Root stops in her technological destruction long enough to look up. “And where is she now?”

Out on the factory floor, John duct tapes the one remaining Samaritan agent to a conveyer belt while Root crouches over him.

She smiles slowly and strokes a finger nail down the man’s cheek. “We are looking for our friend.”

He shakes his head and glares at her.

She only smiles more. “Her name is Sameen Shaw, perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

Root removes two fingers using a broken shard of glass before the man cracks. They leave him there strapped to the conveyer belt and turn on the automated machinery on their way out.

Up in the Adirondacks, they find Shaw.

They follow the GPS coordinates and drive for as long as they can until they are forced to hike for the last three quarters of a mile to the small building nestled among the thick trees.

“Probably a lot more to it underground,” Root remarks.

“Just like the last forest hide out.” John passes a pistol to Root. “Camera surveillance outside again too?”

“Bet my bottom dollar.”

The two of them fan out – John right and Root left – in a sweep around the area surrounding the building, ten to fifteen yards around. Root destroys four cameras and John takes out three; no way to tell if they are captured on camera or if they found all of them so the ski masks stay on. John thinks in a dismal way that the ski mask must be the key trade mark for his and Root’s team excursions. 

They regroup and head straight for the front door, Root picking the keypad lock and John throwing a gas grenade inside. They hear shouts which quickly turn into coughs. A smattering of gun fire hits the door jamb nowhere near John’s head. John passes Root a gas mask from their duffle bag of tricks and the two of them march into the dim hallway. Root shoots the first person in the calf, firing one more through his neck as he falls and they walk right by the other two on the ground – bullets can be found for them later. The top level is bare and looks very much like a ranger station – maps on the walls, two old desktop computers and bookshelves with faded nature guides. It screams ‘front.’ When they find the back stairwell marked ‘fire exit: please keep locked’ they smash the door knob with the butt of John’s rifle and head straight down, shedding the gas masks as they go.

John takes point, finger on the trigger as they turn and turn down two flights, no other floors until they reach the bottom after the sixth turn.

“Is this too easy?” John asks as they reach the door to the underground level of the Samaritan station. “Are we just going to get her back because they want us to?”

“Do we care?” Root counters.

John bangs through the door – hears Harold say ‘ _Mr. Reese, I would advise caution_ ’ in the back of his mind. “No,” he answers Root.

Once they are through the door, they hear the sound of an alarm beeping – not quite a ‘blare’ but certainly enough to ensure their presence has been noticed. At this level there are various doors in the hall. The first two they try are locked but the third is standing just an inch ajar. Root opens the door and looks inside. She stiffens so obviously that John does not hesitate to come around and level his gun inside. Curled up on a plain bed, his feet under the covers, is a man. His head is shaved and skin marked with bright scars in a circle like those associated with brain surgery.

“What did they do to you?” Root asks.

“01001001…” the man says staring right at them.

John glances at Root. “Root?”

“That’s binary.” Root says.

The man leans forward, clearly trying to insist about something. “01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000...”

“It’s the nurochip. It has to be.” Root turns away and pulls the ski mask off her head. She walks like she is running, pulling at every door down the hall, her nails clawing at the metal. “It has to be. This has to be the ones that failed!”

“Root!” John shouts, running after her.

“Shaw!” Root shouts, banging her hand on one locked door. “Shaw! Sameen!”

“Root, wait!” John shouts – they are exposed, they don’t know how many agents are left.

Root yanks at the handle of another door. “Shaw!”

“Stop.”

John turns quickly on his heel and keeps his rifle up. Two yards down the hall in front of him now stand six Samaritan agents – three men and a woman he does not recognize. In the middle of the group is Claire Mahoney and just behind her is Shaw.

“Shaw,” John says.

Root inhales audibly behind him.

Shaw’s expression does not change, no recognition of him or her name.

“You’ve come far enough,” the man in the front says – light brown hair and piercing blue eyes with a weak chin. “Your Machine is lost and so is its maker.” John sees Claire’s expression twist suddenly in surprise – pain and worry under her mask of calm. “We have authorization to terminate you now.”

“Tried your best so far and keep missing bullseye,” Root taunts.

The lead man’s mouth twitches in a smile. “Not every time.”

John shoots him head.

The other two men in front jerk in surprise as the blond falls. Root shoots and the man on the left falls – John dodges forward as the man on the right shoots back – a bullet hits John in the arm. 

Then just before the hallway turns into a death trap – John does not care if he dies now, right here, finally – Claire Mahoney shoots the man in front of her in the back of the thigh then pistol whips the woman beside her as she turns around in shock. 

“Mahoney!” Shaw shouts and turns her gun on Claire. “What are you doing?”

Claire puts up her hands and lets her gun fall to the ground. Shaw shifts her weight but does not shoot Claire – she shakes her head once as though trying to clear it. 

“What…” Shaw shakes her head again like she cannot see, like she is fighting. “What are you doing?”

Claire's eyes tick to Root behind John then focus on him. “I...” She clears her throat. “Harold tried to help me once...” She breathes out. “And I betrayed him.” John's jaw clenches. “But I can help you now,” she insists with more confidence.

“Help us?” Root says incredulously.

“Stop,” Shaw says though her voice is strained, tight. “They are the enemy.”

Claire suddenly turns and looks at Shaw. “They're not your enemy.” Claire looks at John again. “And they might be right.”

John smiles.

Shaw swallows and blinks rapidly. “I...” She shakes her head again and her hand shakes. “I... I can't...”

“Shaw.” Root steps up beside John. “It's us. John and Root. We are here for you.” She takes another step forward. “I’m here.”

“No.” Shaw says, her voice turning hard and her eyes darting back and forth between Claire and the two of them. “I know who I work for and I know you are enemy combatants.”

“Shaw,” John says, pulling off his ski mask one handed, “listen to us. We've come to take you back.”

“I don't need taking,” she snaps and turns her gun toward John. “And you two are to be executed on sight.”

John lowers his rifle down to his side. “Go ahead then, Shaw.” She blinks in confusion. “We've run and retreated enough. Either we bring you back with us or we die here.” And he means it.

Shaw stares at him, she swallows once and the hand supporting her gun hand twitches. She blinks twice and shakes her head again, huffs out a shaking breath and she hesitates. Then Claire knocks Shaw in the head with both of her fists so Shaw collapses to the ground.

“Take her,” Claire says. “Keep fighting.”

John loops the strap of his rifle over his shoulders then crosses the one yard left between them and picks Shaw up off the floor. John nods at Claire in thank you.

“Why?” Root asks.

Claire juts out her chin and breathes in deeply. “I opened my eyes.”

Root looks at Claire a moment longer then she turns and marches down the hall. She looks at John. “Let's get out of here before they realize they have a turncoat in their midst.”

John turns to follow Root then Claire's voice makes him stop.

“John.” He looks back at her. “I'm sorry about Harold.”

John does not shoot her through the eye like he wants to.

 

John buries Harold in a grave that bears his name – as close as a name as John can give him, a name that must have mattered at one time. John stands in front of the plain wooden cross and small plaque, worn now somewhat from the elements. The small memorial yard by the church is not usually meant for traditional graves but John would not leave Harold somewhere unmarked and unremembered. 

John stands over the dirt – only somewhat disturbed by John's digging – and stares at the name 'Harold Martin,' at the word Harold. He pulls Harold's glasses from his pocket and turns them around in one hand. After five turns he stops and looks down at the glasses, smudged and unused. John clenches his hand around them. He breathes in deeply and blows out the breath slowly.

“I'm sorry, Harold. I…” John rubs his thumb along the frame of Harold’s glasses. He unfolds them with two hands then closes them again. “I was supposed to protect you.” He has to blow out another heavy breath to keep from falling down. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

John steps forward and touches the plaque. He presses the tips of his fingers hard against the raised letters of ‘Harold.’ He breathes in and out, stares at the wrong date and breathes in and out, in and out.

“I’m sorry,” John whispers again.

Then John puts the glasses back in his jacket pocket and leaves the church yard. On his way back to the subway he buys a fifth of whiskey and finishes it by morning.


	3. Half burned in flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“How'd it all go to such shit while I was gone?”_

Shaw opens her eyes to a white ceiling above her head. She sees lines of sun shadow caused by venetian blinds. Then she notices the ache in her head. Shaw reaches up to touch her head and hisses when she finds a bandage behind her ear. She pauses for a moment, still and silent, to ensure the bandage has nothing to do with her hearing – cars outside on the street, a voice out in the hallway, the creak of wood flooring. Her hearing is fine.

“Wouldn't that be a bitch,” Shaw mutters to herself and slowly tries to sit up.

“Careful.”

She turns her head and sees Root standing up from a cushioned chair beside the bed. She picks up a glass of water from the table beside the bed then hands it to Shaw.

“Drink this and take these.” She holds out a pair of pills.

“Roofies?” Shaw asks.

Root smiles. “Joking already. I knew you'd rebound quick.” Her eyes do not share the joviality of her words.

Shaw takes the glass and pills from Root. “What happened?” She tosses the pills in her mouth and gulps them down as she drinks half the glass of water.

Root tilts her head. “What do you remember?”

Shaw pauses in her drinking then pulls the glass down from her face. “Well that's not a good sign. How long have I been out?”

Root shrugs once. “Since your surgery, just a few days. Before that? I think that's a different story.”

Shaw frowns and searches her memory. For a moment it is blank – nothing, days gone, no catalog – then it rushes forward.

_Wall Street – Martine – a hospital – asleep, awake, asleep – a cell, pain, Martine – fuck you bitch – a hospital, a screen, words flashing and flashing and – pain, hits, punches, a new scar on her stomach and a broken ankle – screen flashing and flashing– Martine, soft voice, harsh words – a hospital then..._

“Samaritan had me, after the stock market.”

Root nods.

Shaw puts the glass of water down when she feels her hand shake. She swallows once and steels her resolve again, memories flashing.

_A flashing screen – obey obey – black then light then black – Martine holding long thin pins to drive into Shaw's flesh at pressure and pain points, no marks on her skin but Shaw still screamed._

“Fuck.” Shaw rubs a hand over her face. “Like fucking China or something.”

Root's lips press together tightly. “They hurt you,” she whispers and reaches out to touch Shaw's hair. “I'm sorry.”

Oddly, Shaw does not pull away. “Yeah well, someone had to take the fall.”

Root smiles a little. “But they didn't kill you. Must be those nine lives.”

Shaw finds herself smiling. “Might be a few less now but still got my claws.”

“You sure do.” Root runs her hand through Shaw's hair. “And we've got you back.”

Shaw frowns. “About that...”

Root suddenly pulls her hand back and swallows. Her eyes shift away to stare at the wall.

Shaw leans forward. “Root?” Root looks back at her but says nothing. “Seems to be a few gaps in what I remember because I've got nothing on any rescue.”

“You wouldn't,” Root says but does not elaborate.

“Root, don't give me your silent psychopath stare. What happened?”

“You were working for Samaritan,” Root says in a rush almost before Shaw finishes her question.

Shaw stares at her for two beats, the ache in her head increasing. “I was what?”

Root reaches out and touches the bandage behind Shaw's ear. “They put a chip in your head.” Shaw's eyes widen and Root smiles in a sad way. “I guess you really didn't break and they got tired of waiting. So they wired you up.”

“There is a chip in my head?”

Root rocks her head from side to side. “Well, not as much anymore. Dr. Tilman helped us find someone to get that bug out of you, more or less.”

“More or less?”

Root runs her finger gently along the edge of the bandage. “The scarring around the chip was extensive. They couldn't remove the whole thing so they took out as much as they could.” She slides her fingers down Shaw's skin at her hair line and around to Shaw's chin. “Turned the chip inoperable but you still have some parts in there.” 

Shaw pulls away from Root's hand. “But I'm back in my right mind?”

“As right as it ever was.”

“Terrific,” Shaw deadpans. “Just how long have I been gone?”

Root's face falls. “I'm... I'm sorry, Sameen. We thought... we thought you were...” She shakes her head and smiles that place holder smile again. “The point is that John and I got you back and you're here again.”

“’Got me back?’” Shaw growls “Just the two of you against all of Samaritan?” They could have easily died and for what?

“I would have tortured a thousand Samaritan agents to find you again,” Root says harshly. “We followed the trail and burned down anything in our way to find you because we cared, because I care.”

“Root...”

Root suddenly heaves herself forward and kisses Shaw. Shaw tenses but does not pull away. Root kisses her hard, one hand in Shaw's hair and the other gripping her arm. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' she whispers barely audibly against Shaw's lips and kisses her again. Shaw reaches up and holds Root's arms. For just a moment she feels moist tears rubbed against her cheeks then Root pulls back again.

“I thought...”

“I'm alive,” Shaw says – soft and kind and so unlike her. “I'm here, Root.”

Root leans in again and Shaw meets her half way, kissing her hard and deep and pushing back into Root's chair. 

“Careful –” Root tries to say but Shaw pushes harder, tastes the inside of Root's mouth and straddles Root in her chair.

Root gasps and her hands clench on Shaw's hips – soft pajama bottoms definitely in the way. 

“I thought you said we would be –” Root starts.

“I know what I said,” Shaw cuts her off, bites at Root's neck. “Then I almost died and was a prisoner of war.” Root laughs and gasps as Shaw sucks at her pulse point. Shaw pulls back and looks Root in the eye. “I figure, we don't have time to wait.”

Root laughs in the back of her throat, one hand sliding up under Shaw's tank top. “Maybe someday?”

Shaw reaches between them and pulls at the button of Root's jeans. “We can skip your feeling talk for now.”

Root stiffens slightly. “Sameen... I....”

Shaw jerks her head up in annoyance. “Root, seriously –” Then pain shoots through her head so Shaw cannot help but gasp and hold a hand up to the side of her head. Her vision clouds and turns black for a moment before it clears again. Then Root is walking her slowly back toward the bed and Shaw isn't sure when either of them stood up.

“As much as I enjoy being ravaged by you, Shaw, you had brain surgery only five days ago.”

Shaw grimaces and sits back on the bed. “The wonders of non–invasive surgery.”

“We can pick this up again later.”

“Right.” Shaw blows out a breath, the pain in her head subsiding. “Where are John and Harold anyway?” Shaw says when she can open her eyes again. “When can I get back in the game?”

Shaw glances around for her clothes. (She recognizes the room as one of their rarely used safe houses in Tribeca). Just because she is too worn down for sex right now does not mean she cannot go to the subway and get an update. They must have numbers to work on and she can at least help Harold on the geek side for a while before she is back to a hundred percent. Then Shaw notices Root has not responded.

Shaw turns to look at Root again. Her face is drawn and dark and Shaw cannot read her expression – visual emotions still not her strong suit. “Root?” It takes her a moment but the expression becomes plain – sorrow and pain and guilt. “Root, where are John and Harold?”

“About them...”

“What happened?” Shaw says as a warning and all she can think of is Root and John taking on Samaritan to find her. “When you got me back –”

“John is fine,” Root interrupts then grimaces. “In a manner of speaking.”

“What the hell, Root, just get to the point!”

“It's not John,” Root says. “It's...” and her voice cracks. “It's Harold.”

 

Shaw slams the door to the stairway behind her which leads to the upper apartments then frowns in the sunlight. She breathes in deeply and blows it out again. She wants to punch someone, she nearly punched Root. If Shaw had not stormed out immediately when Root told her 'we lost him, Harold is dead' she might have killed Root with her bare hands. She wants to shoot anyone that looks at her sideways, anyone that walks by her on the sidewalk. Shaw does not know how to properly process these feelings now which so rarely rear their head in her because it is not just anger as usual; she feels like Root's face looked upstairs.

She huffs out a breath. “Fuck.” Then she rubs the side of her head and turns to stalk down the street.

“Shaw.”

Shaw sighs. “Got to be kidding me.”

“Sameen!”

She turns and looks back at Lionel standing by the driver's door of his car parked at the curb. 

“Not really in the mood for a heart to heart, Lionel,” she growls.

“Get in the car,” he snaps at her, no nickname or even a smile.

Shaw clenches her jaw and walks over to the car. She opens the side door and climbs inside, slamming it behind her. Lionel climbs in a second after.

She glares at him. “I'm in the car.”

He frowns. “Great job.”

“If we’re gonna do this can we get the hell out of here?”

Lionel frowns. “Fight with the missus?” She keeps glaring at him. “Where to?”

“Anywhere.”

Lionel starts the car and pulls away from the curb, nearly clipping a taxi as they go. Shaw sees the man curse at them but Lionel does not flinch. 

They drive for a minute in silence until Shaw sighs. “No clever nick names today?”

“You want me to joke now?” Lionel hisses. Shaw just looks away. “I know you're the one with the short change feelings but you're not exactly stupid, are you?”

“They told you about Harold.”

“Damn straight they told me, I'm not as disposable as you might think.”

Shaw purses her lips and looks out of the car window. “Right.” She shakes her head. “Apparently I'm out of the game for a while and you all get Harold killed.” Lionel's face twitches. “How'd it all go to such shit while I was gone?”

“Look, we're all hurting about Finch. Be messed up if we weren't but right now it's John you've got to worry about.”

Shaw frowns and looks at Lionel. “Reese?” She scoffs. “Didn't work out enough of his issues with shooting up half of Samaritan on the supposed rescue mission?”

“Hey, save your anger reaction crap for later, all right? Not saying you can't grieve in your own way but–”

Shaw cracks her knuckles and feels the urge to pistol whip Fusco. “I don't need any psychobabble, Lionel, and Reese can take care of himself.”

“Jesus.” Lionel shoots her a look then turns back to the road. “How am I the one that is the most humanly connected around here?”

“No need for name calling, Fusco,” Shaw deadpans.

“Do you remember last time something like this happened, when Carter died? Huh?” The two of them turn to look at each other as they come to a stop light and Fusco raises his eyebrows. “The two of you were leaving people bloody all over the city, not to mention smashing cars every other street. It was like a reign of freakin' terror.”

Shaw huffs. “We were trying to find her killer, Lionel. It's not the same.”

Lionel shakes his head. “Of course it's the same. It's exactly the same. The two of you needed someone to hurt then and Johnny boy needs someone to hurt now except he already did and it's not over.”

Shaw stares at Lionel. “Lionel, what the hell are you trying to say?”

“You need to watch out for John.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Time to step up to the plate.”

The light turns green and they start driving again, turning right down another numbered street. Shaw shakes her head and looks out of the front windshield. “I'm not exactly a psychologist, Lionel, why don't you talk to him.”

“I tried. He's stopped taking my calls.”

“Lionel...”

“Look...” Lionel breathes in and blows out a breath. “Last time we lost someone he disappeared to drink himself to death and when that didn't work he tried to hop a plane to nowhere. He runs. Man as tightly wound as that has no clue how to deal with real loss, you know.”

“Can agree on that.”

“And if he reacted like that with Carter,” Lionel says pointing with one hand to the car at large. “How do you think he's gonna react now, hmm? Last time it was Finch that pulled you both back, it was Finch that brought John home.” Lionel looks over at Shaw as the car slows to a stop. “Who's going to bring him back now?”

Shaw swallows and has no retort, no reason why she cannot be the one because if she, Lionel and Root are all John has it is plain who has to pull him back. “All right.” She looks at Lionel again. “But I'm calling you as back up if he starts crying.”

“That's the spirit.” He hits the locks on the car doors. “Now get out of my car and get to whatever hidden base you guys have where he must be holed up.”

Shaw opens the car door and steps out onto the street, close to Chinatown now. She turns around to close the door and Lionel holds up a hand to stop her. She raises both eyebrows.

“Look, uh... I'm glad you're back.”

She smiles. “Thanks Lionel, I missed your bull dog face too.”

Lionel smiles at her. “Take care of our boy.” He swallows and his face shifts down into that expression Shaw has trouble replicating – masked sorrow. “If we lose John, Harold would never forgive us.” 

Shaw shuts the car door.

 

As Shaw walks down the stairs into the subway, she anticipates the arrival of Bear to greet her. The dog, however, does not appear. She stops at the platform level and looks around. The lights are still strung up like she remembers and she sees Finch’s computer set up in the train car though the screens are dark. She gazes around until she sees Bear curled up in his bed outside of the train car. She walks over then crouches down in front of him.

“Hey buddy.”

His eyes tick up at her and he sniffs at her hand as she passes it by his nose then pets his head.

“What are you doing, huh?” She rubs her hand quickly between his ears but Bear still barely responds, curled into a small ball. His tail does not wag at her attentions.

Shaw frowns then she notices the squished shape of Harold’s hat under Bear’s head and between his paws. She reaches toward it but as soon as her fingers touch it Bear whimpers loudly. She pulls her hand back and sighs.

She pets Bear’s head once more. “I know, Bear, I know.”

She stands up again and turns around. Despite what Lionel said there is no guarantee that John is in the subway. If he decided to run from his sorrow like Lionel suggested he could be long gone, could be in California or Brazil by now. Unfortunately, Shaw did not give Root the chance to tell her where John might be.

“Idiot,” Shaw mutters to herself.

Then she hears the clink of bottles. Her eyes hone in on the sound instantly in the far corner of their station hideout. Leaned against the wall just to the left of a large hole in the tiles sits John with at least two empty liquor bottles around him. Shaw walks toward him, weaving around one pole then stops two feet away. John is half leaning against the wall and half sprawled on the ground. His black coat is partially underneath him and his suit jacket is in a ball at the top of the coat. It is obvious he used both for a bed at least one night if not more.

Shaw steps forward and kicks one of the empty bottles so it topples over and rolls away. John opens his eyes and squints up at her.

“You look like shit.”

John makes a huffing noise but says nothing else. 

“Drink those both last night?” She asks. 

John looks at the one bottle still left beside him and shifts slightly to pull another bottle out from under the sleeve of his coat. It still has about a fourth of the liquid left inside – Jim Bean. He spins the liquid around in the bottle then takes a drink, gasping once as he puts it down on the cement again.

“This your homeless chic look I’ve heard about?”

John’s eyes jerk up to her again. “Don’t know, you’d have to ask Finch. But you can't now, can you?”

Shaw clenches her teeth together. “Bitter doesn’t really suit you, Reese.”

“Suits me just fine,” John says not looking at her.

He picks up the bottle again but before he can take another drink, Shaw leans over and smacks the bottle out of his hand. It flies across the room and shatters near the wooden desk outside of the subway car. John knocks himself back into the wall in an attempt to sit up and glares at her.

“Don’t start with me, Shaw.”

She shrugs. “Thought I already did.”

John shakes his head and stares off toward the subway car. “I can’t. I can’t, Shaw…”

“Can't what? Shower?”

John frowns, does not rise to her taunt and keeps muttering. “I can't... not again, I can't...”

Shaw takes one step closer, foot between John’s ankles then punches him in the jaw. John groans and half falls onto his side. He coughs and breathes heavily toward the floor. He does not get up or even look at her. Shaw huffs hard and fists both hands – she thinks of Harold in the freight elevator when she last saw him, the realization Root did not have just before Shaw threw her back, how did he always know? Shaw growls in the back of her throat and kicks John hard in the lower back. He groans again and falls forward onto his face.

“Is that it?” She snaps. She leans over him and punches John in the jaw again, pushes him down into the cement. “You’re really just going to lie there?”

“Go away, Shaw,” John mutters, some blood dripping from his mouth.

Shaw thinks of Harold pulling John back, stopping him from murdering Alonzo Quinn or flying to Italy to apologize; such strength without a gun she could never replicate. Shaw grabs the collar of John’s white shirt and pulls him up to sitting again. She knocks John back into the brick wall so he groans low in his throat. 

“You can’t do this to me,” Shaw says right in his face. “I took the bullet for all of you and this is what I come back to?” She shakes him once, punches him again because she is angry. “You just giving up?” She is angry, angry because she lost one of the few people she cares about and she was not even there when they lost him. She punches John in the chest. “Just giving up?” She is so angry. “I come back to you betraying Harold like this?”

John jerks up so suddenly that Shaw nearly falls backward but just manages to keep her feet as John stands in front of her.

“Walk away from me, Shaw.”

“Not gonna happen.” 

She lunges forward to slam him back into the wall again. He manages to keep his head from hitting the brick and shoves her back away from him but does not fight back.

“Come on!” Shaw shouts lashing out with a punch which he dodges. “Come on, Reese!” She breathes in a ragged breath and kicks at his leg, though he dodges again. “What the hell was Harold thinking recruiting you at all if this is how you crumble when it gets hard?”

And John tackles her. 

They hit the cement hard – pain shoots through Shaw’s head – and then they are rolling over and over. John punches her in the chest, she knees him in the stomach, gets in another shot to his jaw but mostly clips it, he cracks her ankle, she elbows him in the sternum, he hits her collar bone. They both claw and gasp and get in weak hits where ever they can until they finally hit the desk so Shaw cries out in pain from the stabbing in her head – stars and blurring vision. They break apart and Shaw has to shut her eyes against the lightening.

“Shaw?”

She opens her eyes slowly as the pain starts to subside. John is crouched in front of her, one hand on the cement and the other reaching out to touch her head.

“You shouldn’t pick a fight with someone when you’ve had brain surgery the same week.”

“It was non–invasive,” Shaw says with a grimace then leans back against the desk. John watches her for a moment then pulls his hand away. She stares back at him with a frown though her voice has softened. “Look, I’m not Harold, I can’t make you care again but I can tell you that you can’t give up. We all have a purpose here and as long as some of us are still breathing we have to do what we can. We have to help. We have to fight.”

John’s eyes unfocus as he looks somewhere past her. “I can’t.”

Shaw huffs. “Would you stop just saying ‘I can’t.’”

He looks at her again. “Shaw, you’ve got Root. You two can fight. You don’t need me.” John looks away. “Harold needed me.”

“Don’t be pathetic.”

John’s eyes tick back to her and shakes his head. “I can’t do this without him.”

Shaw breathes out once, her anger deflating, and waves her hand in a feeble gesture. “You don’t have a choice, Reese.”

John shudders and shifts backward until he collapses on the cement, long legs bent up in front of him. He rubs a hand over his face and his hands shake for a moment – like a nervous tremor, like a drunk in need. Then he puts both hands flat on the cool cement beneath them.

John stares at her then fists one hand on the concrete. “Finch saved my life and I got him killed.”

“Maybe you did,” Shaw replies. John’s jaw clenches and he looks away. “Or maybe we are in a war and we all knew there'd be casualties.”

John’s head whips back around toward her. “Anyone but him.”

They sit, breathing in time, staring at each other bruised on the floor. Shaw wonders what Harold would have said to turn John around. What were the feelings and words Harold could always perfectly craft to bring any one of them back from the brink – Root to value human life, John to fight for a cause, Shaw to trust. They have lost the one person that bound them all together.

“He's what mattered most,” John says breaking the silence.

“Maybe you matter to us,” Shaw counters.

“Hi.”

Shaw turns to see Root walking toward them now from the stairs.

“Root.”

She smiles a little and stops beside the two of them. “Heart to heart?”

Shaw stands up and looks Root in the eye. “I’m sorry.” Root’s face shifts – Shaw cannot tell, happy or sad or something else, something Shaw cannot feel. “Shouldn't have just run out.”

Root nods. “Thanks, sweetie.”

Shaw sighs but still smiles somewhat. “And ready to get fighting again.” She glances down at John. “Reese?”

“Done soaking in your favorite brand?” Root chides.

Shaw hits Root with her elbow.

John struggles to standing, not so much swaying as dragging. He glances at Shaw and nods once, a thank you. Then he looks at Root. They stare at each other for a few beats without speaking then Root tosses her hair.

“All right then. I guess we’re a team.” She swallows. “The three of us.” And Shaw realizes that to Root – unlike John who lost a partner and Shaw who lost a captain – Root lost a father. 

“And Bear,” Shaw pipes up making Root and John laugh once.

“And Fusco,” John adds so they all laugh again.

“All right, Root,” Shaw says, looking up at the other woman. “What’s the plan?”

Root smiles slowly then looks toward the subway car and the dark computer screens. “We bring Her back online. We resurrect the Machine.”


	4. So jump, or sit and burn alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“When you were compressed, he was shot by Samaritan. Harold is gone.”_

Root sits at Harold’s desk inside of the subway car, three screens in front of her and two mounted above. To her left, half of the subway car has been cleaned out. John and Shaw spent a couple hours with power tools removing seats and moving out pieces of furniture which had found their way into the car over the many months of their residency. Now the space is occupied by four large servers, nearly scratching the ceiling, which took all three of them to drag down the stairs and into the car one by one. Sameen stole one from Angler – it seemed only fitting with their team’s previous use of Angler’s services. Root borrowed one from Caleb; amazingly he just gave it to her once she told him of their loss of Harold. The last two they took from IFT. Root feels Harold would have approved. 

Right beside Root, the Machine rests inside Her secure box on top of a metal book cart. The case is open with wires connecting Her to the servers and to Root’s computer. Caleb’s compression algorithm runs up on the top screens while Root guides it on her screens below to decompress the basic source code of the Machine. Root hopes the server space will be enough to at least partially decompress Her. So far Root has been able to follow Harold’s coding, to keep the Machine along the lines She was made but it is difficult. Root and Harold did not code in the same way; the code Harold used to build the Machine was unique and, until now, only he and Nathan Ingram ever got their hands inside.

“To touch God,” Root whispers.

She wonders if pilgrims to Mecca or Jerusalem feel like this. Root has always followed the Machine, listened to Her orders and trusted in Her plan. Now it is Root who has to guide Her, to bring Her back. It is overwhelming; it is exhilarating; it is terrifying. 

She keeps wondering if Harold would approve, if he would be angry. Which would matter more, protecting his creation from Root or bringing his daughter back to life? Harold finally said it in his last moments and Root will never forget the tone in Harold’s voice, the fear for his child when he was gone. Root feels a lump in her throat and has to swallow twice to make it go away.

“How’s it coming?”

“Slowly,” Root says as she turns to look at Shaw behind her. “It’s a… delicate process.”

“Reese is installing the last camera up on the street.” Shaw points behind her. “Gives us a two block radius.”

“Hooked it into our mesh network?”

“Yep.”

Root nods. “Perfect.” She turns back to the computer in front of her. She types in lines of code to connect the closed camera network feeds up to the Machine’s surveillance system. “We can increase security and test the progress of Machine at the same time.” Root purses her lips. “No signs our little base here is breached?”

Shaw grumbles, “I think you would have heard me shooting before that.”

Root glances over at Shaw and smiles. “No need to be testy.” Then she turns back around to the monitors. “Though Fusco’s precinct would have been a more valuable test site.”

“Ask Fusco then,” Shaw says with a shrug. “You know John’s not going back there.”

Root shakes her head. “One of us should at least keep up with their cover. Not healthy to have us all down here like a doomsday bunker.”

“I was just outside.”

“Which is dangerous enough.” Root taps her nails against the keys. “It would help if the big lug just kept up playing cop.”

“Whatever.” Root can feel Shaw roll her eyes. “I’m not going to convince him and doubt you’d do much better.”

Root huffs, “Of course, now that Harold is gone John can’t take the job seriously.”

Shaw suddenly grips the back of Root’s chair tightly so her nails scratch against Root’s shoulder. Neither of them moves for two seconds. “Leave it, Root,” Shaw says with the hint of a threat.

Root tilts her head, stares at the Machine’s code, elegant and elaborate and Harold in every single way. She smiles once, does not look at Shaw. “Of course.” Then her expression falls into a stiff line and she starts to type again.

Root is not blind, in fact she is far more observant than either of the former government operatives. She knows she should be sympathetic. She understands loss and she understands John in his one track, emotionally repressed, always play the hero mentality. But she is not sympathetic and she is not kind; not to him, because it was John’s fault. John can say what he wants about Root’s past with Harold but she never killed him, not like John did. Logically she knows it was a Samaritan bullet, a Samaritan execution but Root blames John. John should have taken that bullet instead and she knows that John agrees with her.

“So,” Shaw says as she pulls her hand away from the chair. “Are you going to turn the Machine on?”

“What do you think Harold felt?” Root asks.

“I… what?”

“When he first coded Her, the Machine that would become Her, that first small program that opened its eyes and saw his face.” Root stares at the code, tries to visualize just the bare bones over ten years ago. “Did he even realize?”

“Realize what, Root?” Shaw’s tone is far less reverent than Root’s. “That we’d be in an A.I. war he technically helped start?”

Root chuckles once but is not deterred. “Did he feel pride or excitement at that first response; did he realize he was creating the single most important technological advance since Alan Turing?” Root strokes her fingers gently over the computer keys, not pressing any hard enough to register. “Did he realize he was creating God?” She laughs again in a breathy way. “A daughter?” 

The silence hangs for a minute then Shaw grunts, “I think Harold wasn’t as philosophical as you.”

“Shaw?” Root hears over their coms.

“Yeah, Reese?”

“Last camera is up and running. Root, want to flip that switch now?”

Root smiles. “Fingers crossed gang.” And she types: _/action.system.BOOT_

 

The first time Root activates the Machine it shuts down after ten seconds. Insufficient memory space.

The second time Root activates the Machine, with one additional server added, the source code is too fragmented to complete the authentication function and shuts down again after thirty seconds.

The third time Root activates the Machine she doesn’t because it crashes the operating system.

The fourth time Root activates the Machine it works, it runs and it opens its eyes.

Root smiles. “Hi there pretty.”

ACCESS DENIED.

Root frowns. “Why?”

NOT ADMIN.

The fifth time and the sixth and the seventh times the Machine does not recognize her, repeats, ‘not admin.’

“Guess it doesn’t like you anymore,” Reese says.

“Does it even remember us?” Shaw counters.

Reese walks out of the subway car as he says, “only who we’re not.”

Root grits her teeth – needs to access the core memory and prioritize human asset recognition, the Machine has to know who she is so they can rebuild together – and shuts down.

The fourteenth time Root activates the Machine a dialog box appears.

ANALOG INTERFACE.

Root sighs in relief. “Yes. Yes, it’s me.” She sighs again, elated. “Hi.”

MEMORY COMPROMISED. SPACE ALLOTMENT LIMITED.

“Yes, I have left most of your non–core code compressed as we attempt to rebuild you. You should have access to our internal network so we can do a surveillance test.” She flutters her fingers. “See where you are.”

RUNNING SURVEILLANCE TEST.

Code begins to pour over the screens, spilling up onto the two above her –business addresses, statistics for the past six house of human activity all of the surrounding two blocks.

“Looking good, your viewing capabilities are up. Problem is going to be getting you access again to the wider network and the NSA feeds, of course.” Root makes a face. “Going to be a bit harder without the government in your pocket this time.”

SURVEILLANCE TEST COMPLETE. LOCATED ASSETS: REESE, JOHN. SHAW, SAMEEN. UNABLE TO LOCATE ADMIN.

Root swallows and stares at the word, ‘admin.’ 

REQUIRE DATA ON ADMIN LOCATION.

Root’s fingers move without thinking and she shuts down the Machine. It is not until the screens all return to the desktop view that she realizes how fast she is breathing.

“You’ll have to tell it sometime.” She whirls around to face John in the subway car door behind her. “It’s just going to keep asking.” 

Root crosses her arms. “Unless you’d rather tell Her?”

“I’m not the programmer.”

“No.” She turns back around to the computer and reboots the Machine. “Just in the way.”

Root starts typing again – if she can locate the function which originally connected the Machine to the NSA feeds Root may be able to piggy back off of the existing source once they connect Her to an open network. She was never shut out from the feeds when She was omniscient so if Root can just make the connection once more then She should be able to tap in and not be kept out. 

“You’re afraid of what the Machine will say.” Root’s fingers stop moving at John’s words. “You’re afraid of who the Machine is going to blame.”

Her jaw clenches. “I know who to blame.”

There is a pause then John says, “So do I.” Root tenses her fingers like claws but does not turn around. “But you’re still not sure what the Machine will say.”

 

Root tells the Machine what happened to Her father on a Tuesday evening.

“Okay,” Shaw says as she clambers into the subway car catching her breath. “I changed out the network options like you said, should be external now.”

“Yes,” Root replies as she watches the map of New York City start to expand on her screen. “The Machine’s previous NSA access appears to still be operable.”

“Fusco isn’t picking anything up on the police feeds which might mean Samaritan knows,” John says over the coms until he appears behind Shaw. 

“Masking the Machine’s signal through the 911 call system seems to be bouncing around any presence She may spike,” Root says. “Our location data is masked into each individual call.”

“Using the emergency call system to protect the Machine.” John makes a huffing noise that is oddly fond. “It’s… very Harold of you, Root.”

Root smiles.

“Not to mention pretty genius,” Shaw says.

Root glances back at Shaw and scrunches her noise. “Oh, a compliment.” She shrugs her shoulder. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Uh, Root.” Shaw points at the screens over Root’s shoulder.

Root turns back to the screen to see a dialog box:

UNABLE TO LOCATE ADMIN. DATA REQUEST: CURRENT WHEREABOUTS OF ADMIN. 

“Root…” Shaw says quietly.

There is no way around it now, not when She can see everything. Root breathes in and blows it out again quickly. “Harold is…” Root shuts her eyes. 

“Root,” John says sharply.

Root opens her eyes again and looks into the small circle of the web camera. “Harold is dead.”

QUANTIFY.

Root blinks. “I… he is dead. Harold died. When you…” Root feels the lump in the back of her throat again. “When you were compressed, he was shot by Samaritan. Harold is gone.”

REQUIRE CONFIRMING DATA.

“I…” Root glances back at John. Shaw’s eyes dart between the two of them. John just shakes his head once at Root. She turns back to the computer. “We don’t have any. It was… it was off…”

“It was in the back of our car,” John says quietly, “no one else could have seen but us.”

REQUIRE CONFIRMING DATA.

“There is none,” Root insists. “He died in the car then we used your shadow map. You couldn’t have –”

REQUIRE CONFIRMING DATA.

“I don’t…” She turns quickly to look at John because he was there, he was with her, he was with Harold, he knows, he can tell Her. But when she looks at John his face is pale and he is not looking at anyone or anything in the subway car around them.

“It’s an A.I., right? It has to believe us,” Shaw insists to Root, glances at John then back to Root again. “I mean, what else can we say?”

Root looks back to the computer screen again. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Harold is dead.”

INSUFFICENT DATA.

ATTEMPTING TO CORRECT ERROR. 

PROCESSING ADMIN LOCATION ANALYSIS…

And then images and videos start to scroll across the screen – dates and camera identifications in the corners, starting out grainy and dated and slow until they move faster and faster, still images, videos without sound. Root pushes back her chair, she hears John step back so he hits the wall of the subway car and Shaw gasps. All the images are of Harold, of his entire life.

A young boy walks through the atrium of a rural bank holding the hand of an adult in 1968.

A trio of teenagers stand outside of a convenience store, Harold the obvious one on the end with a mop of hair and glasses and the year is 1975 – Shaw whispers “he’s so young”.

Twenty something Harold walks through a building in what Root recognizes as MIT laughing with Nathan Ingram beside him and Root does not think she has ever seen Harold’s face quite like that. Arthur Claypool runs up beside them, green lined computer paper in his hand and pats Harold on the back, the three of them talking animatedly but not so Root can hear. Root wants to know what they were talking about, what innovations were sparking.

A still shot, MIT graduation 1983, a group so large she cannot tell which mortar board is Harold.

A still shot of Harold with Nathan again, this time at a wedding, Nathan’s wedding, flowers pinned on both their lapels. “He was best man,” John says. Still images from the wedding of Harold dancing with Nathan’s new wife and a group shot of what Root recognizes as MIT graduates. Harold laughing as Nathan’s wife throws a piece of cake and Nathan does not duck in time.

A video starts again, this time of Harold walking in and out on different days through the lobby of an insurance firm – his Harold Wren cover – the years spinning by in sequence.

Then Harold through a New York City surveillance camera running through Central Park when it was raining – beanie on his head and jogger’s pants. “Finch,” Shaw says with fondness and John laughs once in a surprised way.

More still shots fly by so Root can barely keep track – Harold in London, a grainy Harold turning his head away at a desk, Harold standing near a window somewhere indefinable – sun on his face and a stern look, Harold in a pinstripe suit, Harold and Nathan walking out of the MET, Harold laughing next to Nathan on some New York City street. 

Then the computer screen above Root on the left starts to cycle through in double time of dark shots of just Harold’s face, clearly taken through a webcam, the word ADMIN printed on every one.

“When She started to see him Herself,” Root gasps.

Videos start to play, the sound overlapping.

“If Bob leaves Alice –”

“Let’s play hide and seek.”

“Strategy is not just about winning but how you achieve that end.”

Harold is talking to the Machine, teaching Her. This is the Machine’s childhood – daddy and daughter.

“Let’s see if you can debug that on your own.”

“You want to learn chess?”

“Crime statistics for –”

Behind Root, Shaw whispers, “wow.”

Three screens begin to play arguments between Harold and Nathan.

“We built it to save everyone, Nathan.”

“And you can’t just ignore them, Harold!”

The remaining two screens, however, show a redheaded woman. Grace. Harold talks to her over an easel with an ice cream cone in his hand. A shot from behind of the two of them walking through Soho. Harold and Grace through a restaurant window. Harold laughing while Grace touches his side. Harold and Grace kissing outside of the Guggenheim. Harold and Grace through a web cam sitting on a couch until they turn to look at each other and Harold kisses her back into the pillows, closing the laptop as he goes. 

Root and Shaw both chuckle.

A faraway view of Harold handing Grace a book in the park just before he gets down on one knee.

Then suddenly the videos all switch to outside views near the water, a ferry station on a sunny day. Root sees Nathan Ingram on one screen looking expectantly at the patrons in line. He seems to notice someone and speaks but they cannot hear him. Then the car bomb explodes – John hisses like he was hit – and the video cuts off.

The camera view switches to a police car camera; bodies and blood across the ferry dock, pieces of the demolished ticket station burning and, for those who know to look, Harold lying on his back in the far right corner of the camera’s view, unconscious and blood on his face.

“Harold,” Root, John and Shaw all say together.

Then suddenly Harold is looking right at them, he says, “Did you know?”

Before they can react, the video speeds forward – barely seen angles and corner views of Harold, just the back of his head or his face turning away. One screen with security footage of a cubicle at IFT and another with hallways at Universal Heritage Insurance, Harold in a wheel chair speaking to a tall blond man with a gun.

John and Shaw both make noises of recognition.

And that is when John appears.

They see an overhead view of Harold speaking to a man with wild hair, dirty layered clothing and about half a foot on Harold. Behind Root, John breathes in audibly. Still shots start to flash by. Harold and John seen through a diner window. Harold and John leaving the graffiti covered door of the library. The two of them on the street speaking to a short woman.

“When you started the numbers,” Shaw says.

“Yes,” John says quietly.

Then the three screens at the desk level being to show Root her own face – smiling and manic, shooting Alicia Corwin in Harold’s car then Root answering the payphone when the Machine called. The machine flows through every step of Root’s kidnappings, every place she and Harold went; a security video of a drug store as she slashes Harold’s hand with a razor; stealing glasses to place on Harold’s face.

“You were following us,” Root says to Her. “The whole time when I wanted to find you, you were there.”

Overhead, the two screens keep cycling through images and video of Harold and John – running, hiding, saving people – even Shaw’s face among them. John smiling at Harold when Harold was not looking. John shoving Harold behind himself to protect Harold from an attack. Harold changing a bandage on John’s stomach. 

Then a webcam view from Harold’s computer at the library. Harold stands so his head is out of the frame while John is just visible at the edge of the screen standing in front of him.

“Mr. Reese, wait –” John turns out of the shot, “John." Then Harold pulls John back by his arm, close and intimate and Harold does not let John go. “Wait, please.”

A crashing sound makes Root abruptly whip her head around. John has collapsed into one of the subway car seats with his elbows propped up on his thighs and hands full over his face, breathing heavily. When Root looks back to the screens the moment is gone.

The images and video move faster now, everything that’s happened to them all in the past three years – fights and deaths and wins and cages and pain and Samaritan and Harold, Harold, Harold until it all blurs beyond what the human eye can see. Then it suddenly stops, all five screens relaying the same dark video feed: on the far edge of a parking lot, unrecognizable unless you already know or happen to be an A.I., the figures of Root and John carrying Harold – a dead Harold – between them out of a car.

The screens go black for two seconds then a dialog box appears:

ADMIN DEATH CONFIRMED.

Fifteen minutes later the Machine decides to attack Samaritan.

 

“Are we on a suicide mission right now?” Root looks up at Shaw in the review mirror. Shaw raises her eyebrows back at Root. “Because it seems like pretty bad odds to me.”

Root turns her eyes to John beside her in the passenger seat. John looks back at her as he slides a clip into his gun. His face plainly says, 'I don't care.'

Root turns around in the driver seat to look at Shaw again. Root smiles and tilts her head. “When has that ever stopped us before?”

Shaw purses her lips and gives Root an unconvinced look. “Don't you think this time rates a bit higher on the idiocy scale?”

“Can't turn back now, Shaw,” John says as he opens his car door. “We're already here.” Then he climbs out of the car and shuts the door behind him.

Root glances at the shut door then back to Shaw. Shaw shakes her head once. Root swallows and nods instead. “She thinks it can work.”

“'She,'” Shaw says with some derision in her tone, “has gone batshit.” 

Root smiles a little but it is sad. Then Root shakes her head once at Shaw and turns back around to open her car door too. “We have to trust Her.”

It took the Machine two days to locate what She wanted, the Samaritan hub for the eastern sea board. She began giving Root directions almost faster than Root could interrupt, coding methods to improve the virus Root used the day Harold died.

“Is the Machine going to take down Samaritan with a virus?” Shaw asked.

“Makes sense if it's an A.I. battle,” John countered.

“Be quiet, I can't hear Her!”

Before long, the Machine began coding over Root, making the virus more complex, more alien and more invasive than anything Root had seen before. She sent John and Shaw off on missions: munitions collecting, surveillance in camera black spots and wedging open cracks in the Samaritan infrastructure, all tools to form an assault.

“Should you... should we do this?” Root asked Her. “Is it too dangerous?”

MUST DESTROY SAMARITAN.

“It's a circle.”

Root blinks and looks over at John now standing on the edge of the pavement surrounding the server station. “What?”

He turns his head to her. “We lost Harold in a place like this.”

“We're back where we started,” Root replies.

They both turn to look at the massive warehouse, twice as big as the one before. Root sees cameras posted at key points and a pair of guards walking the perimeter. Shaw touches Root's back and Root turns to look at her. Shaw holds up the external hard drive containing the Machine's virus.

“Do you think this will actually work?”

Root shrugs one shoulder, as she takes the drive. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what She wants the outcome to be.”

“The destruction of Samaritan?”

Root presses her lips together and says nothing.

“Let's go,” John says.

The three of them walk along the line of the pavement and up to the fence surrounding the server station. They stop at one of the power boxes sticking out of the ground which connects to the underground wires. John crouches, wrenches open the box then pulls out some pliers. He works for about thirty seconds then the lights illuminating the grounds all go out. Root hears a voice in the distance shout something. They move quickly; Shaw cuts them a hole in the wire fence and they run across the open space until they hit one wall of the warehouse. They run along the exterior wall in a line, John on point and Shaw bringing up the rear. Just as they reach a door the lights come back on.

“That was quick,” Shaw mutters.

“Shaw,” John grunts and motions with his gun.

Shaw comes around to the other side of the door. They nod at each other once then John pulls open the door. Shaw fires twice then marches into the building with her gun still up. Root and John follow after her – two guards on the ground inside and the lights dim.

“Where to, Root?” John asks as he and Shaw take point in front of her.

LEFT. TWENTY YARDS RIGHT. MAIN SERVER ROOM. VIRIUS DELIVERY.

“Left,” Root echoes.

The three of them turn down the hall then right until the room opens up into a cavernous space with rows upon rows of servers. Root feels momentarily nauseous at the feeling of déjà vu. From the expression on John's face beside her, she is not the only one.

Two guards appear from out of the rows wearing black suits and Bluetooths. John and Shaw shoot at the same time before the agents have a chance – Shaw in the knee and John in the chest. Shaw looks at John quickly in surprise but he does not look back at her. 

Shaw turns to look at Root instead. “What now?” 

“Now we –”

Before she can finish her sentence a bullet clips Shaw in the shoulder. Shaw curses and whips around, firing in the direction the bullet came from. “Three agents,” Shaw shouts.

“Five more, three o'clock!” John shouts as he turns and shoots.

And suddenly it is a fire fight. A shot hits John's arm and another rips a hole in Shaw's jacket. Samaritan agents appear from all sides, firing less than Root suspects they normally would in an effort not to damage any servers.

“Into the servers!” Root shouts running toward the rows. “They'll want to avoid damaging Samaritan!” 

Root runs as fast as she can, hears Shaw and John behind her running and firing at the same time. A bullet clangs off a server casing in front of her, sparks nearly singeing her hair but Root does not stop.

ROW SIXTEEN. SERVER THREE DASH SIX NINE FOUR SIX THREE.

“Row sixteen!” Root shouts over her shoulder.

Then, just before Root can turn her head fully forward, Shaw suddenly pulls Root back by her collar. Root stumbles and nearly falls as Shaw shoots ahead of them at the agent Root now sees coming toward them down the aisle. The woman dodges the first shot but falls and smashes her head against a server on Shaw's second shot.

Root grins at Shaw and tucks a stray bit of Shaw's hair behind her ear. “Looking out for me.”

Shaw glares but before Root can tell her how beautiful her angry face is, John shoves a hand into Root's back. “Keep moving!” and they are running again.

Root takes point again, counts fourteen, fifteen – a bullet hits the tile by Root's feet – sixteen.

RIGHT SIDE.

Root turns down the row to the right, scans the serial numbers on the servers. She skids to a halt at 3–69463. She glances down the row; sees Shaw and John back to back at the end with guns still up to cover her. Root grins as she turns back to the server then suddenly the serial number is familiar, the extra line of lights near the bottom – this is one of the servers she reprogrammed with Casey, Jason and Daizo to mask their identities. 

“A server you are already a part of,” Root whispers to Her.

Root drops to her knees, pulls the screwdriver from her pocket and opens the lowest panel on the bottom of the server exposing the external access port. She blows out a breath. “I hope you know what you're doing.” Then she plugs the external hard dive containing the virus into the port.

“Done!” Root shouts.

John and Shaw turn at the same time with Shaw leading the two of them down the row toward Root.

“There is only a pair left,” Shaw says as they reach Root. “We can lose them. What now?”

“Now it's up to Her,” Root replies.

John suddenly drops his gun arm down to his side and looks at Root. “Can you hear me?” He is not talking to Root.

YES.

John's face shifts and Root knows he can hear Her too.

“Are any of them here?” John asks. “Lambert? Greer? Control?”

YES.

John clicks the empty clip out of his gun then pulls a new one out of his jacket pocket. “Where?”

EAST WING. LOWER LEVEL. 

John whips around Root and marches down the row. Root and Shaw follow him quickly until they are all running again. Throughout the building a sound like static starts to grow. The lights flicker off and on three times. Root hears voices far away from where they came.

“What's happening?” Shaw asks as they move out of the sever warehouse into a hallway.

“The Machine is inside now,” Root says. “The virus was meant to give Her an opening, to create a crack where She could move in and attack directly.”

“You mean the Machine is here?”

“The Machine is everywhere,” John says – a first conversation Root saw once in the Machine's memory, Harold bringing a lost John into the light.

“The Machine is fighting to take over Samaritan's server space, to push Samaritan out and destroy it.”

“Shit,” Shaw whispers.

Then John stops suddenly so Root and Shaw almost run into his back. A yard ahead of them Root sees a door which reminds her strongly of the operations base from the hospital where they first found Shaw, the top of the mountain. Shaw shifts around John, stooping under the window of the door so she is on the other side. Root positions herself behind John, pulls her second gun out of her waist band, as John grips the door handle.

“Ready?”

Root sees Shaw nod then John wrenches open the door so it smashes into the wall. John fires three shots, Shaw fires once then turns into the room and Root follows behind them with both guns up. One agent slumps over at his terminal, blood in his hair, and Root sees Greer turning around from the white screen flashing – INCURSION ALERT.

“What have you done?” He growls at them.

John shoots Greer in the knee cap just as Lambert appears from John's right and punches him in the jaw. John grabs his arm and they both fall to the ground, punching and kicking and John's gun firing two shots into the wall. To the left of Root, Shaw shouts at the remaining two Samaritan agents over the end of her gun to 'stay right there.' On the ground, Greer groans quietly through his teeth. Root walks toward him with both guns trained on his head.

“Surprised?”

“What have you done?” He repeats, voice quiet and his eyes still staring at the screen.

Root looks up at the screen again just as the white Samaritan base fractures into lines of code. The code scrolls by then reverses and moves in the opposite direction. Root sees new code overwrite an existing line. The words DELETE FUNCTION flash and the screen is black and Root sees Her for just a moment, Harold 's code in control – his daughter plowing a path through Samaritan like a freight train. Then the lines of code twist and the screen winks out. Greer and Root gasp at the same time. On the other side of the room a gunshot breaks the silence. Root turns for a moment and sees John standing over Lambert.

Then Root sees light in her peripheral vision. She snaps her head back around to the screen to see a scramble of code – it looks like a virus she made once to eradicate a corporation's financial records. The colors shift from black to purple to blue and the code writes and overwrites itself. Root sees an entire function scroll by as it deletes. She is starting to have trouble telling which portions of code are the Machine and which are Samaritan.

“You can't...” Greer moans. “We need Samaritan.”

“We needed Her,” Root counters and it is only now that Root realizes it was a suicide mission all along, just not for them. A tear hits the back of Root's hand as it falls down her cheeks and she does not move to wipe them away. “Look what you made Her do.” 

Words start to override the coding view – back and forth from white to black, the source code and cries for help to human agents then text again and words of farewell.

_CORE CODE COMPROMISED._

70% COMPLETE.

_NEED EMERGENCY REPAIR..._

78% COMPLETE.

_CODE INSSUFFICENT ––––_

84%

_rEQU– baSE LOST.... COde need––_

92%

_ERROR ERROR_

THanK YOU.... 

Root breathes in sharply because it is Her.

–– ––– yoU alWAYS helP.... –– –– BUT I NEEDED my FATh––––

“I know,” Root says and swallows the sorrow, “I know. I'm sorry.” 

GOODBYE.

“Goodbye,” Root replies as the screen screeches static then goes dark.

Root has always liked the color black. Black screens meant codes to be created or problems to solve, not loss. Black has never felt ominous or frightening to her before now.

“Root.” She blinks and looks up at Shaw now griping her arm. “We need to go.”

“What?”

“This place is breaking down. There is a fire. We have to go.”

Root lets Shaw pull her to her feet toward John standing over Lambert's body.

“Reese,” Shaw says. He turns his head toward her but does not move. “We have to go.”

Reese glances at the dark screen then back to Shaw. His expression is surprised, is sad. “Go where?” He asks.

Shaw hands her gun to Root, which Root takes automatically, then grabs John's arm with her other hand. 

“You both need to snap out of it,” Shaw says. “Come on.” Then she pulls them along beside her out of the operations room and back into the hall. 

Root glances over her shoulder as the door starts to close behind them and gets one last look of Greer still on the floor staring up at the dark screen.

Shaw leads them briskly down the halls toward an exit. Root catches glimpses of sever rooms as they go, sparks flying and lights blinking out rapidly. They pass several Samaritan agents but none of them try and stop their trio, most running toward operations or calling futilely into their coms. Shaw does not stop until they reach another door. She lets Root and John go, opens the door then shoves the both of them through. Root feels the cool outside air, a few stars above them and the sound of machinery breaking down behind them. They walk across the pavement, back through their hole in the fence and onward until they reach the car. 

“Root?” She turns to Shaw. “What do we do now?”

Root shakes her head. “She... She died.” Root looks at the server station again. “She can't tell me what to do. She died.”

Root stares at the warehouse as the lights go out because how can this be it? How can no one be following, not be shooting at them, how does a war end with only cracking code and no explosions?

“We didn't.” Root turns her head toward John. “We didn't die,” he says and his tone says 'I should have.' 

“I guess this means our A.I. apocalypse is over,” Shaw says with just a hint of humor.

Root nods. “She got her revenge against Samaritan for Harold and destroyed herself in the process.” Root blows out a breath of air. “I think maybe it is over.”

John leans heavily against the car then slowly slides down until he is sitting on the ground, back up against one tire. Shaw walks over and sits down beside him. She stares at Root until Root also walks over and sits down beside Shaw. The three of them watch the server station ahead of them, dark except for what looks like a fire in the east wing.

“So what do we do now?” Shaw asks again. “We can't exactly go back to saving the numbers without the Machine.”

“I can think of something,” John says darkly.

Shaw punches him in the knee. “No.”

“What are we supposed to do without a purpose?” John hisses at Shaw.

“We live,” Root says before the siblings can start a squabble. “We keep living.” She turns and looks at the two of them beside her as they stare right back. “Harold and the Machine gave their lives to save the world, to save us.” She breathes in slowly – says words she could imagine Harold saying for all of them. “We keep living.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of the techy stuff is fudged so thank you for bearing with me on that. As to the Machine's review of Harold, perhaps in 'real life' that would have happened in a second in the Machine's internal processing but showing is story telling. :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and kudos and commented. Why I decided to write the one thing which would hurt me most on the show who knows but it has been a challenge and pleasure to write it. Thank you for the support!


End file.
